


dead space on the other end

by butiamhome



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Gen, Memories, Recovered Memories, those movies did mike DIRTY, threw a turtle in why NOT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24415126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butiamhome/pseuds/butiamhome
Summary: Mike spends so much time alone that it ought to be familiar, but he keeps sticking on some half-formed, sun-drenched memory of hands held, of belonging. He has nightmares sometimes, doesn’t remember much but wakes up with an ache in his chest, wondering, how a man can feel so lonely when he’s never known anything else?-in which mike's memories fuzz out, for a time, until he remembers everything all at once. quick flashes of a very lonely man between the first time the losers defeat It and mike making some important calls.kind of mushed together some book canon and some movie canon, hope you'll forgive that. title from "in memory of satan" by the mountain goats.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	dead space on the other end

After they make their oath, none of them talk about It again. 

Mike thinks maybe they can’t – conversation sputters in fits and starts, a joke from Richie comes out at a worse angle than usual, a cold spot holds space where their easy friendship ought to warm the room up. 

The closest he can get with any of them is when they’re one-on-one. 

Once, he and Ben were in the Barrens, moving stuff around so they could build something later. Ben’s shirt caught on whatever he was lifting and hitched up, and the twisted pink lines of an H were more visible than they’d been in ages. Mike caught Ben’s eye as he fumbled to adjust his shirt, embarrassed. There was a flash of – almost – then an unfocused haze. They broke eye contact and said nothing. 

On a walk with Stan, talking big questions and nothing at all, Stan shushed him, pointed to a big black bird, whispered an identification. It cawed, Mike flinched, and Stan went quiet, said, “Oh...you don’t like birds, right, because…” and drifted off. “Sorry, Mike, what were we talking about?”

Mike doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t think he remembers everything, but he remembers enough to notice they don’t, and he’s on the outside again. He thinks he’s crazy, sometimes. He thinks, how can you be lonely when your friends are right there?

It’s almost easier, when they all go. Bev first, off to live with an aunt, and there are promises to call, write, Richie throws himself at her feet and threatens to run away after her. It’s all very theatrical, and genuine, and then time passes and Mike can’t remember the last time anyone brought Bev up.

He tries, but he just gets weird, blank looks he doesn’t understand. It gets old, fast.

Eventually, time takes everyone their separate ways, except Mike. He thinks about leaving sometimes, but – where would he go? He thinks about lighthouses. He thinks about some vague notion of responsibility. He thinks, is the main thing. He figures, well, a job’s a job, and takes one at the library.

He tries to keep in contact with the others, at first. But calls on birthdays get routed to answering machines, letters returned to sender, and after a few years it all fuzzes out.

Mike spends so much time alone that it ought to be familiar, but he keeps sticking on some half-formed, sun-drenched memory of hands held, of belonging. He has nightmares sometimes, doesn’t remember much but wakes up with an ache in his chest, wondering, how a man can feel so lonely when he’s never known anything else? 

One night, he dreams of turtles in the dark and wakes with a better understanding. He is alone now, but he wasn’t always.

Instinctively, he scrambles for the phone, dials the first number that comes to mind – but it’s been a long time since the Denbroughs lived there, turns out, let alone Bill. 

The passage of time hits him like a train. His friends aren’t home, because they don’t live there anymore, because they are adults out in the world who have new, adult lives and – he’s catching up now, to everything he’d left half-remembered at the last edges of childhood – they have no idea he exists. Fuck. 

Mike takes a deep breath, makes a call to work, takes a few days off. He spends his first time off in ages trying to make sense of things, recalibrating his entire worldview based on one dream and half a lifetime’s worth of returned memories. 

He thinks he’s crazy, maybe. He knows he’s not. The thinking goes in circles as memories surface, and the weight of them – of the sure knowledge that it’s just him, he’s the only one – makes him feel like he can’t breathe. He thinks of Eddie, eyes wide and clutching his inhaler, and smiles. 

He remembers what it felt like to belong. Then he finds his heart aches beyond the telling of it, but – well, maybe that’s what happens, when it’s removed from your chest and years pass before you take notice of your open ribcage.

With all this comes the knowledge of what he needs to do, and he’d almost say he’d never been more frightened in his life, if he didn’t know better. 

He remembers now the foundation his father built for him, of Derry lore and its inherent horrors, and he has an idea of where to start. He starts filling notebooks, speaking to old folks, formulating theories. The work helps, but the nightmares get clearer and worse.

Still, time passes. He catches up to the current status of his friends, follows from a long distance as they move up in their careers, get married, buy houses. Makes private notes where he’d rather send congratulations, worries silently when he wishes he could be there to lend a hand. 

He reads the news constantly. He has a police scanner, has contacts on the inside somewhat-willing to pass him information he absolutely shouldn’t be privy to for reasons they’ll never understand. 

The guilt eats at him constantly. Another horror? Jot it down, note the time and date, count the days and years back. Consider: Is it bad enough to call your friends? Do you have sufficient reason to justify ruining the lives of the people you once held dearest? Is your selfish desire to reach out worth the cost?

Because he knows, he knows that they swore to return, that they’re the only ones who can finish It off and end the violent cycle, but he also knows that he’s older now, and he misses his fucking friends, and he’s tired of bearing the burden of memory alone. 

Adrian Mellon dies – is murdered – there’s mention of a clown – and Mike writes it down. He consults the historical record. He speaks to witnesses, runs the numbers, checks his work. He wishes, briefly, he were anyone else. Still, something in his chest stirs.

He goes over to the phone, notepad in hand, and starts dialing.

**Author's Note:**

> so. this is the first fic i've written in years and also the first one i've written for the clown movie...not what i was expecting to do, but i hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> mike breaks my heart. i can't look at my mike feelings directly because it is too much! hopefully this...conveys that, somehow. 
> 
> you're welcome to say hello over on tumblr, i'm weekenddracula, thanks and goodnight


End file.
